


Perfectly Timed

by turante



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bearded Mycroft, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 10:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turante/pseuds/turante
Summary: Mycroft teases Lestrade in bed (yep, that's ALL the plot).





	Perfectly Timed

They are in a small town; so far in the countryside their hotel barely even has a name. The rooms are small, few, but well soundproofed, which serves Mycroft’s purposes splendidly.

Outside it’s dark now – not that it changes anything.

Lestrade is panting, sheen of sweat covering his forehead, eyes closed and hands gripping the headboard so hard his knuckles are white (Mycroft loves taking in all these details).

Mycroft’s jacket is on a chair, where he has carefully left it before, so as not to get creases. His pocket watch is on the nightstand, substituted, this time, because it didn’t fit his intentions. His shoes are by the door, arranged tidily. His tie is used to gag Lestrade – he can see a glimpse of white teeth over the thick silk – and he’s still wearing the rest of his clothes, admittedly having conceded a few buttons on his collar and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

Lestrade is naked, of course, and it is a sight he always enjoys, as proven by the tightening of his trousers.

But that’s not why he’s doing this.

He nibbles at a thigh and hears a stifled moan, then bites harder, and the man under him groans and flexes his leg, trying to flinch away and toward him at the same time. (He loves to make Lestrade confused with want. And to think that he had almost hesitated when Lestrade had asked him to grow a beard as a Birthday present.)

He bends down, spreading the inspector’s legs and manoeuvring them so that Lestrade can rests one on his shoulder. He kisses a bit higher, and Lestrade gasps, his mind grasping his final intent.

He knows that Lestrade is looking at the ceiling now, more flushed than ever, what little blood isn’t trapped in his erection rushing to his face and neck and ears.

Mycroft almost wishes he could see, but this is just as good.

His beard is short and tickles, scratches and stings Lestrade’s thigh where the skin is more sensible, more delicate. The part only he ever gets to see.

Delicious friction, Lestrade has called it, a nice rough burn.

He liked seeing Lestrade’s lips and mouth a bit redder than usual after they’ve kissed; liked seeing him rub at his face and smile his grin full of mischief.

And what he plans to do next...

Lestrade flexes his leg, calling him back from his reverie. Mycroft licks at the thigh and the man moans around his gag, a shameless, delicious sound coming from his throat.

He moves his mouth upwards and gently kisses his way to the man’s testicles. He starts licking and even sucking a bit, holding him down with one hand as he bucks his hips.

He muses, silently, and watches Lestrade’s body answer to his touches – has been doing it all along – recalculating each time the best thing to do in order to obtain the best result (it isn’t as arid as it sounds).

Mycroft sucks on his fingers, making a bit of a show of it, moaning a bit too loudly as he sloppily wets them with his own saliva. He can hear a curse muffled by the silk; cannot discern the words, but he knows the man well enough. Lestrade is a creature of habit, just like him, and awfully fond of his curse words.

Then he slowly inserts one digit into his opening. Lestrade bites harder on his tie, trying to move against the finger; Mycroft has teased him enough before – well, not enough according to Mycroft.

Now the inspector wants more.

Mycroft knows the man would never forgive himself for begging – that’s what the gag is for – and besides, this is more fun. Make him beg with his body, tremble, whimper, moan and sweat with impatience and desire. Make him swallow his pride and allow Mycroft to do anything to him.

Yes, _fun_.

He pulls out the finger, and Lestrade growls: his patience is wearing thin, and most people would capitulate and give him what he wants, what he craves, what he’s almost begging for. But Mycroft is not most people. And Lestrade is not even begging.

He rubs his beard on the inside of the other thigh, drawing out another groan, a bit frustrated this time. Mycroft stops for a second to bite.

He puts the finger back in, slowly, carefully tracing every millimetre of the passage, then out again. He circles the opening, teasing the muscles, and works a second finger inside too.

Lestrade’s whimper sounds almost delighted, since Mycroft doesn’t even register impatience anymore (it’s beside the point).

He goes back to nibbling and scraping his teeth and beard across the tender skin in front of him. It’s still new, and Mycroft is trying it out, enjoying it thoroughly – though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else.

He bends the fingers, teasing Lestrade more, finding his prostate and brushing past it once, making the man shudder and arch his hips wantonly, but after that he carefully avoids it. He doesn’t want this to end yet.

He takes out the fingers and before leaving him the time to complain, he spreads Lestrade’s cheeks better, teasing the hole with his tongue this time.

Lestrade has probably screamed “Fuck!” at this point. Or rather, tried to.

Mycroft knows _exactly_ how this feels, with a wet tongue pushing at his entrance and the stubble scraping him slightly in places he’d never imagined. A soft pain on the right side of pleasure, a little discomfort maybe, but such a supreme distraction...

Lestrade moans louder, shifting his hips to get a better angle. Mycroft knows how to undo him completely, but it’s an art and he won’t be rushed.

He stills the other man’s hips and sets his pace, he starts gently, with light touches and licks, pausing every now and then to kiss or nibble. He’s aiming to make him insane with need, so beyond reason he forgets all about their little game.

So far Lestrade has resisted everything, showing an admirable self-control as Mycroft licked the entire alphabet on his skin. One letter at a time, each on a different patch of skin, interspersed with punctuation, numbers, hickeys and bites.

He has endured the torture of being brought to the brink of orgasm by Mycroft’s mouth sucking him, his fingers touching every other erogenous zone he possesses (that’s where being observant comes in handy).

And so far Lestrade has resisted the urge to beg, or disobey Mycroft’s order not to touch himself.

But now... Now that Mycroft is stabbing his tongue in and out of his hole, his resolution is crumbling, he can barely think anymore – and after all that teasing no one can blame him! – so when the man that _is_ the British Government (despite all his insistence of the contrary) adds a finger to the game to stroke his prostate, he gives in. Lestrade groans against the tie gagging him, lets go of the headboard and finally, _finally_ closes his hand around himself, stroking fast, hard, so eager to come.

It doesn’t take long at all before he spills himself on his hand and all over his chest. It’s a wonderful relief and a tad disappointing coming down from his orgasm.

Mycroft sits back on the bed, tutting in disapproval at his disobedience. He pulls out the stopwatch from his waistcoat’s pocket and presses the button. “A few minutes short of three hours... but I have faith you can do better,” he says, and Lestrade feels too boneless to do anything other than grab Mycroft by the shirt and kiss him and his delicious stubble.

There’s always morning to make Mycroft regret having made him wait so long for an orgasm, and knowing him, Mycroft has probably already planned it too.


End file.
